


happy, if not overjoyed

by the_ragnarok



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Not Beta Read, Scottish Honeymoon, Sickfic, Statement Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22899154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Jon is sick. Martin reads a statement for him. It's almost not horrible.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 7
Kudos: 255





	happy, if not overjoyed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Umbralpilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbralpilot/gifts).



> the prompt was to write martin reading jon a fluffy statement. i... tried...?

Among the effects becoming the archive has had on Jon, one of the more visible ones is that his eyes glow if you shine a light against them in the dark, like a cat's. Tapetum lucidum. Right now, those eyes are shining balefully at Martin out of the blanket Jon has draped over himself.

Martin is sitting next to the bed, holding a statement in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, and feeling rather like he's trying to tempt out a stray that's taken shelter under his car. "You'll feel better with something in you." Jon's eyes widen, and Martin realizes what that sounded like. "I meant food! Er. Drink. Nutrition. Bugger, I don't know."

Sadly, disease immunity is not among the superpowers that the Beholding chose to bestow on Jon. Pity. That would probably be more helpful than, say, infinite tape recorders, especially if they had to go against the Corruption again. Jon, predictably, is a piss-poor patient - more like an _im_ patient, hissing and croaking when he should be resting his voice.

Martin'd had much worse from people he'd taken care of, though, so he takes it in stride, and just admonishes Jon not to strain himself and to get hydrated.

The sound of thumb-typing os audible from under the blanket, and then Martin's phone pings. A message from Jon, of course. _How do you expect me to read a statement when I can't speak?_

"Don't be silly," Martin says. "I'll read it for you. Come out of the blanket and have a listen."

Jon emerges from the blanket after a brief struggle. He gives Martin a sour glare.

Martin grins at him. "Maybe it won't be so bad. Could be a nice statement."

 _Nice,_ Jon mouths with utter disdain.

"Well, we can hope!" Martin turns the page. "Alright, statement of Jeffrey Grant, regarding his daughter's playmate." He pauses. "Okay, I absolutely just jinxed myself, didn't I." Very few statements involved children being hurt, which Martin was thankful for. He had no stomach for such things. But this was the only statement Jon hasn't read yet of the ones they were sent, and who knows when Basira will get around to sending them more.

So Martin clears his throat, and continues to read about Jeff Grant's five year old daughter Steph and the occasion of him picking her up from kindergarten.

 _I was running a little late,_ Martin reads, _not really late, you understand, just getting there in the nick of time, five minutes left before they call me and demand to know where I am. But coming that late means that Steph would be alone in kindergarten except for the teacher, and I didn't want her to feel abandoned._

_When I got there, I saw Steph waiting at the gate with one of the other parents and their kid. The parent asked me if Steph could come to theirs for the afternoon to play. I admit - I was tired and behind on work, and the idea of a few more hours to work from home sounded fantastic. And Steph looked at me with those big eyes of her and begged to be allowed. Why wouldn't I?_

_So I went home. I did some work. Tricia - my wife, Steph's mum - arrived about an hour later. I told her Steph was off at a friend's. "Who?" she asked._

_That's when I realized I had no idea._

_"Try to describe them," Tricia said. Was it a boy or a girl? I didn't know. Long hair or short? No idea. What were they wearing? I couldn't conjure the faintest memory. Trying to imagine the parent was even worse._

_I could see Tricia considering divorcing me in her mind, and I didn't blame her one bit. She let out a breath, pulled out the phone sheet for Steph's kindergarten. We divided up the list of names and we called up parents. Each time I cringed as I explained that I have a very bad memory for faces and names, which is true, and did they see Steph at all this afternoon._

_None of them did. I caught Tricia's eyes as she started dialing the police._

_The next thing I know, I was in my car at the parking lot beneath our building. My phone was ringing. I answered; it was Tricia, frantic. "What the hell happened?"_

_I started saying I had no idea when I heard a sleepy voice ask me, "Daddy?" I looked behind me and there Steph was, all buckled up in her car seat._

_Tricia heard her, too, and now she was yelling at me to get her upstairs already. So I did that, although my hands were shaking so bad it was a miracle I could unbuckle her. She asked to be carried up, which usually I refused because she was getting big and my back wasn't up for it anymore. I took her in my arms until we got home._

_When she was in bed I told Tricia what had happened. The little I knew, anyway. She said I'd just turned away and wandered out without answering her when she asked where I was going. I had no memory of this at all._

_i kept an eye on Steph in the days after. She seemed fine, her usual bouncy self. She did keep asking when she'll go see her friend again. But whenever we asked her which friend, she'd come up with another name: Brenda. Roy. Siobhan. Jeremy. Names none of the children in her class had. And when we'd tell her that, she'd stamp her foot and say, "My friend! You know the one I mean!"_

_Tricia took to calling that child Steph's imaginary friend, and to pretending the whole thing never happened. All that's left is a picture on my phone, distorted and sent from a number that never picks up. I can just about make Steph's fuzzy unicorn jacket in it, and she's holding something that might, if I forgot completely how anatomy and physics worked, have been a hand._

"Statement ends." Martin glances down at his own hand, which Jon is holding. "There's follow up information," Martin says, voice wobbling. "Stephanie Grant is fourteen now. She's a perfectly normal kid as far as anyone knows, according to her mother. Her father apparently went out for a drive one night and never came back."

Jon meets Martin's eyes. Martin lifts his eyebrows and tilts his head, because maybe Jeffery Grant simply decided he wanted to get away from his life; Jon's mouth tightens, because they know how likely that is, in the world they occupy.

Martin draws a breath. "Alright. You should drink some tea, now, I put honey in it." He puts the mug into Jon's hand and goes to the kitchen to see about dinner.

Outside, the Scottish highlands are grey and dreary. The horrors that took Jeffery Grant are likely still out there, as are many others. It seems almost unconscionable to have these weeks of peace they've had, where nothing's hunting them down and the worst they have to worry about is the common cold.

Martin closes the curtains. The kitchen is lit yellow by a single old lightbulb, the refrigerator humming loudly. If it's a question of deserving this respite, surely they've paid for it dearly enough; if it's a question of blind luck, who is Martin to treat it with anything but gratitude?

For now, he's making dinner. Jon's in bed, and Martin will join him after they both eat. He'll read aloud from the battered paperback copy of _Watership Down_ that he found in the bedroom, and Jon will tuck his freezing toes under Martin's thighs. It's not a happy ending. Martin doubts they'll get one. But for now, it's good, and for now, that's enough.


End file.
